


Trimalchio Of The Eastern Gate

by WolfieOnAO3



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Greece, Ancient History, Ancient Rome, Aromantic, Asexual, Bickering, British Comedy, Caligula - Freeform, Classics, Comedy, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Historical, History, M/M, Oysters, Petronius - Freeform, Roman History, Rome - Freeform, Slice of Life, classical literature, classical philosophy, ineffable husbands, lots of talking, roman food, trimalchio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21604336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfieOnAO3/pseuds/WolfieOnAO3
Summary: Rome, 37 AD.In which an angel invites a demon for dinner...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	1. Philomena

“This is it?” Crowley asked. He was feeling distinctly underwhelmed. “No offence, Aziraphale, but I had expected something with a little more… A little more...” 

Crowley cast a languid and demonic eye over the scruffy exterior of the dingy little thermopolium. It wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he had, against his better judgement, assented to joining his erstwhile arch-nemesis for dinner. If one was to be dining with the enemy, one at least expected to do so in a place with some class. Some _style_. At _least_ with some basic hygiene standards…

From the bar window, open to the street, a portly man was yelling from behind the counter.

“Ccccccome and get ‘em, get ‘em while thur ‘ot! Guaranteed noooo dog meat! Ggggget ‘em while thur ‘ot! Bargain for th’price! An ‘undred percent pork an’ parsully! Best sausages this side’a the Tiber!” 

He was lying of course, Crowley intuited. He didn’t need his Demonic senses to know _that_.

Behind the shouting sausage-seller, the sounds of drunken ranting, arguments over dice, and of general degeneracy oozed out onto the street from the open windows of the restaurant. If, that is, you could even call it a restaurant. Crowley doubted one could, at least not with a clear conscience. Where the hell had the Angel brought him?

“A little more…?” Aziraphale repeated Crowley’s unfinished sentence back to him with such wry devilry in his voice that Crowley only just managed to keep himself from grinning. Luckily he caught himself in time, and instead rolled his eyes and sighed in a way he hoped seemed irritated. His heart wasn’t in it, though.

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, my de- , erm, Crowley.” Aziraphale was clearly trying to sound mysterious and enigmatic. It didn’t really work. Although, Crowley _was_ growing more and more intrigued by the minute, so maybe it did. 

The Angel gestured for his dinner-guest to enter the filthy bar.

Crowley hesitated for only a short moment; a small, obligatory display of reluctance and rebellion. He did have an image to uphold, after all. Being enthusiastic about going out for dinner in a total dive like this, with an _Angel_ of all people, certainly did _not_ fit that image. Didn’t jive with his aesthetic. Crowley liked to be _cool_. Luckily he had no friends in Rome to catch him out. He didn’t even have any acquaintances. He hadn’t been here long.

Crowley didn’t like Rome very much. Really, he’d only come because Beelzebub had finally gotten word, over a hundred years late, that Rome was _just a bit_ of a big deal in international politics. Crowley had been hoping that Hell would stay happily ignorant of this for another hundred years, but no such luck. He hated Rome. It was pretentious, and busy, and excessive, and messy. Plus it was so full of depravity that his presence here was completely useless. And quite frankly the place was a fire hazard. Coming to Rome always felt uncomfortably like going _home_. When you’re a Demon that prospect isn’t particularly appealing. 

But, regretfully, the news that Rome was the Place To Be had finally filtered through Hell’s grubby ears and into their grubbier brains, and Crowley had been given marching orders to go and “ _te_ _mpt the Emperor”_ , so here he was.

Crowley had laughed out loud when he’d read those orders. Although he didn’t visit Rome often, it was easy enough to stay abreast of current events, or at least current-ish, even out in the far-flung corners he’d preferred of late. Gossip out of the Eternal City was full of Emperor Gaius’ excesses, political misdemeanours, and general debauchery. Tempting Caligula would be about as effective as spitting in the ocean. Easy enough gig, though. Crowley figured that he could show up, maybe do some small cursory tempting, then claim credit for the rest and earn himself a nice little commendation. All the while spending the remainder of his time in Rome catching a few theatre performances, updating his wardrobe, and enjoying the luxuries of indoor plumbing. For all of their many faults, you couldn’t deny that the Romans really knew how to _bathe_.

It had been a pretty sound plan, theoretically. But then Crowley had actually _met_ Caligula. And at one of his famous parties, no less. Getting an invite had been no easy task, but he had managed it in the end. That party was… _an experience_ , to say the very least. That is to say, it was an experience in same the way that it would be _an experience_ to be halfway through a meal and to then discover a fingernail in it. Still attached to the finger. 

Crowley had stuck it out for about fifteen minutes before promptly turning on his heels and making a quick exit out of a window. From there he’d headed straight to a bar to get thoroughly drunk and scrub it all out of his memory, and that’s where Aziraphale had found him. 

Crowley’s itinerary had thus been flipped entirely on its head. Instead of hanging out at the palace on the Palatine with an Emperor and tempting him to go and wind up the Parthians a bit, he had found _himself_ being tempted to enter a shabby, grubby little thermopolium with an Angel. Successfully tempted, too. That _definitely_ hadn’t been on his to-do list.

Aziraphale smiled brightly at him, holding open the dilapidated wooden door. Crowley huffed, and sauntered through as casually as he could.

The quote-unquote _restaurant_ was no better inside than out. Possibly worse actually, if that could be believed. Away from the open front, the internal bar was infernally dark and dingy, and was populated by the type of dubious moral characters that would have felt very at home in Hell. Crowley did not like it one bit.

Aziraphale strode in with a calmly confident air, and glanced around the room with a searching expression. Eyes landing upon a matronly woman in her fifties, his face broke into a bright smile.

“Philomena, my dear lady!” 

At the sound of his voice, the woman turned with a scowl that Medusa would have envied. Crowley nearly flinched. _Nearly_.

However, the moment her gaze lighted upon the Angel, her scowl transformed into a broad, one might even say wicked, grin. She swooped over and wrapped the Angel up in a bear hug.

“Aziraphale! Oh, darling lamb, I din’t know you wuz back in Rome! When did you get back, pet? You’d better tell me you just arrived this vurry minute or my poor heart’ll be clove in two, you little scoundrel!”

Aziraphale tried to reply, but it was as much use as trying to reply to a hurricane.

“And showin’ up ‘ere, of all the places! You found us, then?” she continued, relentlessly. “Well, a’course you did my little lamb, what am I thinkin’ of? I ‘spect you been writing to our bright little lord n’ master in the back, ‘ave you? Tellin’ you all about ‘is latest little pet project no doubt. Lovely boy he is, wu’nt work fer no one else, but gods preserve us can ‘e ever talk for the Empire when ‘e gets started on ‘is little projects. ‘As ‘e told you about ‘is book?”

“Ah, yes, well -”

“Ah, pet, but it _is_ so good to see you! I’ve missed that face!” Philomena turned to Crowley. “Look at that face! ‘Ave you seen this face? Tell me truff’lly, ‘ave you ever seen a face so precious as this one?” She was pinching Aziraphale’s cheeks.

Crowley shook his head, thoroughly entranced by a mixture of abject horror and sadistic delight. 

Philomena then took a moment to look Crowley up and down, as if his presence as a stranger had finally filtered through to her preoccupied mind.

“And who might you be, my love? Aziraphale, yer manners are as bad as ever, your muvver should be ashamed of ‘erself for raising such a child as you. Were you ever gonna introduce me to your friend ‘ere? What’s your name, lovey? You not from round ‘ere? ‘Aven’t seen you, but then again ‘s’a big old city, after all, so many people these days poppin’ up from all over. You knows what, but I met a young lady from _Britannia_ the other day, would you believe it? Britannia! Cor, but thas’ annuver _world!_ ”

Crowley’s mouth opened and closed as his head bobbed up and down and side to side like a duck in a tsunami. By _Satan_ this woman could _talk_. Crowley liked her.

“Whur’re you from, then pet?” Philomena continued, appraising the Demon’s appearance. “Provincial, are ye? Don’t look local, a’though I ‘spose I sh’un’t judge, not tha’ that’d be a bad thing, the gods know most Romans’re demons these days. And you look wholesome enough. Got a good face on you, my love. Yer a good ‘un, thas’ fer sure. But ‘ow do you know our lamb Aziraphale? Friends, are you? Not corrupting you, izzee? You watch out for him, ‘e’s a devil ‘e is. ‘Though ye wou’n’t think it to look at ‘im, would you! Those cheeks, I just wanna bite ‘em!”

Philomena pinched at Aziraphale’s face again, and the Angel barely managed to suppress an irritated huff.

Crowley grinned and meant every inch of it. 

“Is that so? Devil, is he? Well, well, well,” the Demon replied to Philomena with an amused, nonchalant lilt, never taking his eyes off of the Angel. Crowley was having far too much fun watching him squirm. Even if he got food poisoning, which by the look of the place was extremely likely, Crowley felt that this weird little escapade would still have been absolutely worth it just to see Aziraphale getting so flustered. 

“Really, Philomena…” Aziraphale chastised, thoroughly ruffled. “Crowley is a… a business colleague.”

“Mmhm. Business colleague. Yep _._ That’s me.” Crowley drawled the words, voice dripping with deliberately annoying sarcasm. The Angel glared at him. Crowley was enjoying this far too much.

“Yes, quite...” Aziraphale turned to Philomena, clearly doing his best to pretend the last few minutes hadn’t happened. “We _were_ actually hoping to speak with the proprietor. I’m looking to order from the... _Special menu_?”

Philomena grinned again and clapped Aziraphale on the back unexpectedly, causing him to stagger forward.

“Chickpea, you don’t ‘ave to tell me! I knows vurry well why you’re ‘ere, and as much as I’d love to say it was to profess yer undying love fer old Philomena, I summow doubt it.” She chuckled heartily. “Come, come, go sit yerselves down over thur, and I’ll go an’ fetch the… how d’you put it, love? ‘ _Proprietor'_?” She said the last word in a surprisingly accurate impression of Aziraphale’s own posh accent, and laughed again before bustling off into the dank pits at the back of the shop.

Aziraphale shot a look to Crowley which seemed to say _Don’t even think about saying anything,_ and which managed to be vaguely threatening and completely embarrassed at the same time. Crowley found that just a smidge adorable, not that he would admit that to himself for at least another couple of centuries. 

Crowley held up his hands in mock defense, replying with an expression of his own that said _Who? Me? Never. Wouldn’t dream of it!_

With one last dubious pout, Aziraphale went and sat down at a corner table. Crowley followed him.


	2. Petronius

They had barely taken their seats when a crash from the back of the bar made them both jump back up again. A door swung open and a garishly dressed young man in his early twenties swaggered through, cast an eagle eye around the room and, seizing upon his prey, positively pounced on Aziraphale.

“Zira!” he cried, grasping the Angel by the shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks. “I didn’t know you were back in Rome! What are you doing here? We weren't expecting you back for _months,_ if at all! Oh, but how perfectly _wonderful._ We’ve missed you at father’s dinner parties, it’s been utterly _abysmal_ without you. All of father’s other friends are such _tragic_ bores. You _mustn’t_ be zipping off _anywhere_ for at least the rest of the season. You have no _idea_ of the trials I have faced in your absence - Phaedrus has gone back to blasted Macedonia, have you heard? And although I have become acquainted with Cassius and his posse - have you met Cassius? He’s Praetorian up at the palace, brilliant chap, I think you would like him - but he is always so busy with work, and honestly I doubt father would appreciate his type crashing his formal meals even if he weren't. So for the most part I’ve been stuck having to make do with Valerius for company. Ugh, he’s so gauche and nouveau riche and his poetry is so painful at times I’ve genuinely wished the Emperor would show up and order me to open my veins for his amusement.” 

He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulders again, jostling the Angel in quite an undignified manner. “But now _you_ are returned to us, and all is well in the world! And _look -_ ” the man turned to Crowley and grinned, “- you’ve brought a new _plaything_ with you, as well. How good of you, old boy.”

Crowley wasn’t particularly enamoured with being referred to as anyone’s “plaything”, but this conversation was so filled with things to confuse, peruse, and amuse that he could do little else but let it slide un-snarked-at. Crowley looked across to Aziraphale, wanting to observe how the Angel would deal with _this_ latest turn of events. 

Very much to Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale seemed quite in his element. He had received this attention quite warmly, and reciprocated in kind. Well, well, _well_ , the Angel _was_ full of surprises.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t write, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said to the man, voice full of the casual warmth of long-term familiarity, “rather a last minute decision to drop in, you see. Been over in Athens the last few months, and - oh, well, it’s a tedious story, and I would much rather hear about you. How is your father? Well, I hope? Did he win the election? And your mother, did she return safely from her trip to Cyrene? Oh! And have you made any progress with your book?”

The young man laughed. “Questions, questions, Zira! I _believe_ I was fishing for an introduction to your _fascinating_ -looking friend, here. Perhaps my subtleties are too seamless for you. So, are we to be made acquainted any time soon, or shall I simply invent some colourful backstory for the fellow, and request that he does likewise for me?”

Aziraphale at least had the decency to look abashed. “Oh, yes. Quite. Of course. Terrible manners. Of course.” Azirphale cleared his throat. “Right. Uh… Crowley, this is Gaius Petronius Arbiter, the entrepreneur behind this marvellous little venture, and the younger son of two very dear friends of mine. And Petronius, this is, uh, Crowley. He’s a, uh, a business associate of mine. In town for, um, for... business,” he finished lamely.

“Charmed,” Crowley said coolly, extending a hand. 

“Likewise, I’m sure,” Petronius replied, taking the proffered hand with an insipid grip Crowley was sure he intended to be insulting in it’s lack of vigour. The man, the _boy_ , spoke with an ironic, nonchalant lilt that Crowley found endlessly annoying. _Pretentious little prat,_ he thought. 

“Petronius runs this establishment, and several others like it,” Aziraphale chimed back in with renewed enthusiasm. “It’s quite the secret hidden in plain sight, and quite, quite marvellous.” He turned back to Petronius. “This is your newest acquisition?

Petronius laughed. “Yes indeed it is, old thing. You know how it is, after the success of _Spurcifer_ , I thought it might be fun to open somewhere new. The old girl started getting a bit popular among those in the know, you know? Took the shine off it, rather. So we bought this little gem.” He slapped the wooden bar affectionately. “Welcome to _Tartarus_!” 

“Apt name,” Crowley opined, running a critical finger across the grimy tabletop.

“Nothing, my new friend, is falser than people’s preconceptions and ready-made opinions.” Petronius narrowed his eyes and smiled like a fox. “A beard does not constitute a philosopher, don’t they say? Outward looks are not enough, and beauty is not common stuff!”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all, friend of Aziraphale, nothing but nonsense. Now!” Petronius clapped his hands together. “If you gentleman would care to take a seat, I’ll send a girl along shortly. Are you happy to be served at the chef’s discretion, or was there anything in particular you were hoping for this beautiful afternoon?”

“Oysters!” Aziraphale exclaimed, seizing Petronius by the elbow. “We were particularly hoping to try the oysters. I’ve been informed that they are the speciality of _Tartarus_ ’ chef. Crowley, here, has never had them, you see, and I thought he ought to be introduced with the best!”

Petronius took Aziraphale’s hand in both of his and made a theatrical show of kissing the winged signet ring the angel wore on his little finger.

Crowley grimaced. Aziraphale smiled indulgently.

“Of course, of course! For the friend of Aziraphale, anything!” Petronius proclaimed with a clear flair for the dramatic.

“Thank you, dear boy. But, um, he’s not my friend.” 

“Aziraphale, idol of my youth, apple of my mother’s eye, diamond among my father’s friends, know I speak truly when I say that there is nothing as blatantly false as unconvincing statements made by men.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“You never were a good liar, you most wonderful paragon of a man, but never mind! No one is perfect, I suppose, not even dear old Aziraphale. No matter! Now, I will bid my leave of you for now - I have heard that the Emperor has some players up at the palace, and I was hoping to pilfer the attentions of some of them for a small play I was hoping to put on for some friends next week. I’ll get young Julia to attend to you for now, and return shortly.” 

Petronius clasped the Angel’s hands, and his expression grew somber. “We do need to catch up, Aziraphale. There is much I wish to discuss with you. Please promise me you won’t disappear again without saying goodbye first?”

It was the first thing Crowley had heard the man say in earnest. Aziraphale smiled warmly and promised, and Petronius happily swanned off to go and bribe his actors, or whatever it was he was planning on doing, leaving Crowley and Aziraphale alone once more. 

They sat back down at the grimy table.

“What was _that_?” Crowley asked, tone dancing between incredulity and sarcasm. 

The Angel glared at him. It was a steely, icy, metallic glare that seemed to come from the very core of him. _Fascinating._

“What was _what_?”

Crowley waved his hands in general area where Petronius had been standing.

“I’m not psychic, Crowley. If you have something to say, use _words_.”

Oh, _ouch_ . This Angel had _bite_. That was… Well.

Crowley had been drawn to Aziraphale, to this strange and vaguely indefinable creature currently sitting across from him, right from the start. Right from the moment he had first met him on the Walls. Right at the very Beginning. He’d approached him out of curiosity and boredom and a burning and disconcerting need to _talk to someone_ about the _Thing_ that had just happened, and which was sort of a little bit entirely his fault.

And then Crowley had _kept_ talking to the Angel, because, turned out, the Angel was actually quite interesting. Interesting because of his slightly chaotic compassion, his willingness to listen, and his evident proclivity to seek forgiveness rather than ask permission. Aziraphale had not only given away his angelic sword to the humans because he wanted them to be safe, but he’d admitted as much to Crowley. A Demon. The Enemy. And a _stranger_. 

That had been unexpected. 

Crowley liked the unexpected. Or, rather, he loathed the disappointingly expected. He hated it when he could predict precisely how a situation would go wrong, how someone would stupidly or arrogantly or cruelly react to something. It was annoying, always being right about how shitty people (and people-ish-shaped-creatures) were. It was _depressing_. It was starting to get to him, quite frankly. 

He hadn’t been quite so jaded back at the Beginning, or at least, not so _holistically_ jaded, anyway . But still, he had expected the Angel to shoo him away. To be condescending, callous, possibly even to just walk away as if Crowley weren’t there at all. He certainly hadn’t expected him to smile brightly, engage in conversation, and then have a mild panic attack relating how he’d just given away his flaming sword. And then to _thank_ the Demon for reassuring him about it?! 

_Most_ unexpected. 

Crowley had been somewhat bowled over by him. 

And now this. This was another something new. Something else unexpected. The Angel wasn’t just a compassionate maverick, a would-be rebel-with-a-cause hiding under several layers of anxiety and nervousness and that irritatingly omnipresent _Good Angel_ routine. Beneath all of that he had _teeth_ . Crowley could feel it, suddenly. He could see it in the Angel’s eyes. He could hear it in his voice. And it made sense, really, now that Crowley was thinking about it. Aziraphale had been the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, after all. Didn’t get that job by being a pushover. And he’d stayed at _this_ job for the last, what was it now, four thousand years? Got to have a bit of something about you to achieve that. The Angel definitely had a bit of something about him. A bit of steely, fiery, brazen _bastardry_. Crowley wondered why he hadn’t seen it there before. 

“Nothing. Forget it,” Crowley replied, offhandedly. “You’ve dined here before then?”

The Angel resettled himself, un-ruffling his feathers, metaphorically speaking, of course. “Well, not here specifically,” he replied, voice a great deal softer, but still not yet _soft_. “But Petronius has a small chain of restaurants like this one, and I’ve dined at the others on multiple occasions.”

“Without getting discorporated? The _germs_ in this place…”

“Of course without getting discorporated. No one gets sick from eating at Petronius’ restaurants, Crowley. It’s one of the few places to eat in Rome where that is guaranteed. You don’t think I’d bring you somewhere likely to give you food poisoning, do you?”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno. I am the _Enemy_ , after all.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Well. Yes. Of course. Obviously. But that wouldn’t be very _sporting_ of me, now would it? One must be _civilised_ about these things.”

“ _Sporting_ ?” the Demon snapped. “ _Civilised_?!”

This Angel was certifiable. Absolutely off his rocker. Complete and utter- 

Crowley was about to vociferate this line of eloquent debate when he found himself interrupted by a small, red-headed, freckle-faced child of about thirteen years of age. She scowled.

“A’ight,” she said.


	3. Julia

“A’ight,” said the small, red-headed, freckle-faced girl who had approached the table. 

“Excuse me?” said the Angel.

“What?” said the Demon.

“Owld man said you wan’ed som’fin. Said I was to come ‘ere and speak ta ya. So. Hi.” She sniffed, and spat on the floor. Crowley winced.

“Oh, you must be Julia,” Aziraphale said, brightening, and almost managing to hide his own grimace. 

“Yrrp,” said Must-Be-Julia.

Aziraphale and Crowley stared at the child, who inspected her nails. She gnawed off a hangnail and spat it over her shoulder. The Angel and the Demon shared a disconcerted glance.

“Well?” Crowley finally said to the girl, growing impatient.

“Well what?” Julia said back, giving Crowley a haughty look before promptly turning back to her nail inspection.

“I think what my- I think what Crowley here means to ask,” Aziraphale cut in, “is whether you have a menu for us to peruse, or whether there are any set dishes to order, or anything you would like to recommend, or…?” He trailed off, flailing under the weight of her utter indifference.

“Nope,” she replied, eventually.

“Ah.”

“Okay, kid, look,” Crowley said, leaning forwards and holding two coins between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ve got a sestertius here that says you’ll do whatever it is you have to do to get us some decent food in this dump, and another that says you’ll do it quickly. Got it?”

Julia snatched at the coins, but Crowley moved too quickly for her.

“ _ Got it _ ?” he said again, more firmly.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows.

“Yes!  _ Got it!” _

Julia made another grab for the coins, and this time Crowley let her take them. She grinned at him.

“Cheers, mate. So, you wan’ som’fin’ ta eat, then?”

“Yes, we do, so if you-” Aziraphale found himself cut off.

“I’m not talkin’ ta you, Blondie, I’m talkin’ ta Money Boy.”

“Oi,” Crowley hissed at her. “That is my, erm, my ...Dining companion? No, that doesn’t sound right. Dinner partner? No, no definitely not. Uh… That is my _ Person I Am About To Eat Food With, If You Ever Get Round To Taking Our Orders _ . Yeah, that’s alright. That’ll do. Anyway, I’d be  _ much obliged _ , wee urchin creature, if you would please  _ listen to him. _ ”

Out of the corner of his eye Crowley saw Aziraphale wiggle in his seat and smile smugly. Annoying.

“Oh, Crowley, thank you, I-”

“Because, quite frankly, I’ve got  _ no idea _ what food this place serves, and I don’t even really know what _ I’m doing here _ at all,” Crowley continued to the disinterested child. “I think I might be suffering from a serious imbalance of the humors, or something. Clearly not sane. Somewhat concerned about it, but what can you do? So, yeah, you’ll speak with him, if you don’t mind, because I cannot be bothered to deal with any of this right now.” 

Crowley leaned back in his seat. If cigarettes had been invented, he would have lit one and turned away whilst taking a long draw, but they hadn’t, so instead he just stared at the ceiling in a way he hoped looked interesting and apathetic.

“Whatever,” Julia said, severely underappreciating Crowley’s dramatic flair, and turning to the Angel without missing a beat. “Chef don’t really take orders, ‘e sorta duz whatever ‘e feels like. ‘S’thur anyfin’ you partickerly don’t eat, or partickerly wanna eat? Can’t guarantee ‘e’ll listen, like, but…” she shrugged.

“No, no, anything is fine, thank you. But please do make sure to tell him that we are keen to eat oysters, if you don’t mind. Anything else is fine.”

“Erm…”

Aziraphale’s eyes darted over to Crowley, who was bobbing his head sheepishly.

“Yes?”

“Um.”

“What?”

“Ngk.”

“Words, please, my de- Crowley.”

Crowley half huffed, half sighed. “ ....’ _ M’veg’t’r’yn _ , ” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. You’re what?”

“I’m...  vegetarian. ”

Aziraphale frowned and shook his head. “You’re  _ Vespasian _ ? I don’t understand what that means.”

Crowley growled and snapped, very loudly, “ **Veg-e-tar-i-an!** I am  _ vegetarian. _ ”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

“Wassat then?” Julia chirped. “That some kind of, like, merchant trader or summat?”

“What?” Crowley said, jerking his head in her direction, genuinely and disorientingly perplexed. “I literally have no idea what that means.”

“I dunno, you got a lotta money and dress weird and…”

“Sorry, you’re  _ vegetarian?” _ Aziraphale interrupted their intellectual conversation with a voice drenched in incredulity. 

“Mmhm.” Crowley made a show of looking intently at  _ absolutely anything else in the room _ .

“But you’re a Demo-” Aziraphale glanced at their diminutive waitress. “- a  _ Demo...lition… _ uh... _ Worker _ …” he finished, lamely.

“I thought you were a merchant?” Julia asked, utterly in vain.

“ _And_?” Crowley snapped, glaring at the Angel.

“Just seems unlikely…” Aziraphale spoke with a great deal of supercilious scepticism and Crowley did  _ not _ like it. 

Suddenly Aziraphale was feeling very much the  _ Angel _ . 

Very much  _ expected _ .

“Oh, so, what Demolition Workers can’t be vegetarian? All of us are just one big, homogeneous lump of meat-eating, evil-doing, temptation-wielding-” 

Aziraphale interrupted him, which Crowley was actually quite glad of, as he hadn’t figured out exactly how he was going to end that sentence

“All I’m saying is, well, I mean, it hardly suits the  _ job description _ , does it? Hardly tallies.”

“Oh? Really? Doesn’t _ tally _ , does it?”

“No. In fact, I’m not sure I even believe you.”

“What? Why would I lie about that? What a weird-”

“You  _ are  _ a Demon- Demolition Worker. That’s  _ what you do _ .”

“Well, I’m not lying.”

“If you say so.”

“No, no no no, not  _ if I say so _ . Because, because, ngk- Your logic is, is, is  _ flawed _ .  _ You’re  _ not vegetarian, and you’re an An-” Crowley glanced at Julia, whose eyes were jumping back and forth between the arguing pair with more interest than she’d shown in anything since pocketing Crowley’s coins, “-erm, an  _ Ancient Historian _ .”

“Your point being?”

“Well, if it’s so  _ un-tally-able _ that an evil, uh, Demolition Worker, is vegetarian, isn’t it more un-tally-able that some holier-than-thou, supercilious,  _ righteous _ , um, Ancient Historian  _ isn’t _ vegetarian?”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Oh, excellent argument. Eloquently put. Masterful. You have clearly been spending your time in Rome well. Studied rhetoric under Cicero, did you? You’ve convinced me!”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“I cater to my audience.”

“Well then!”

“Right then!”

They glared at each other across the table.

“So, shall I jus’ leave, then?” Julia said, her sullen voice breaking the weirdly tense silence.

Aziraphale blinked and turned to the girl. “Oh, um, sorry. Yes, yes, fine… Oh! No, wait. No. Julia, please could you tell your chef that my friend here doesn’t eat meat.” The Angel glanced at the Demon. “Or fish?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nope.”

“No meat or fish for my associate, here. If your chef would be so kind as to prepare a selection of suitable vegetarian dishes alongside his usual fare, we would be much obliged.” 

Then Aziraphale’s polite smile turned to a concerned frown, and he turned back to the Demon. “But, Crowley, we are getting  _ oysters _ . That’s the- That’s the whole reason we’re here. Aren’t they animals?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose and drew his eyebrows together, mouth hanging open somewhat gormlessly.

“Uhhhh… I-...Uh... Are they?”

“I think so,” Aziraphale replied, uncertainly.

“I thought they were like, you know, sort of, ngngnmm, sea… mushrooms… Or something.”

“I don’t think they are.”

“Well, they don’t have faces, do they?” the Demon asked.

“Do they need faces?”

Crowley thought about this.

“I… ngk, I don’t... know. Usually I just go by the general rule of ‘ _ if it can look at me with a sad expression, I don’t eat it’ _ . Can oysters do that? I haven’t ever seen an oyster.”

Aziraphale looked up at the ceiling as he tried to visualise a sad-looking oyster. “Um. No. No, I don’t think so.”

“Probably fine, then.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Well, if they come out and look up at me mournfully, then I won’t eat them.”

“As long as you’re-”

“EXCUSE ME!” Julia shouted.

Crowley and Aziraphale both flinched, and snapped to attention. For such a small girl, Julia had a surprisingly commanding voice. Crowley suspected she’d do very well under Beelzebub’s tutelage. The girl was disconcertingly similar to the Lord of Hell.

“‘Ave you  _ finished _ being  _ idiots  _ yet?” the little girl hissed at the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian Of The Eastern Gate, and at the Demon Crowley, Snake From Eden, Facilitator of Original Sin. “Jus’  _ some of us _ have  _ fings to do _ . Can I  _ go now please? _ ”

“Uh,” said The Demon Crowley, Snake From Eden, “Yep. Ngk. Sorry.”

“Of course, of course, um,” said The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian Of The Eastern Gate. “So sorry, dear girl. Of course. On your way. Um. Here. For your trouble.” He leaned over and tried to pull a  _ denarius _ from behind the girl’s ear, only he buggered up the sleight of hand and dropped the coin on the floor instead. It rolled with surprising strength of purpose into the bar area where it promptly caused a fight between two burly looking chaps, both of whom claimed to have seen it first

“Ah,” the Angel said, dejectedly watching the fight break out across the other side of the room. “Um. Here. Just take this one. Sorry. Um.” 

Aziraphale gave the girl another coin, and she shot him a contemptuous glance before scurrying back off, presumably,  _ hopefully _ , to the kitchens.


	5. Aristophanes And Terence

“Quite a, um, feisty little thing, wasn’t she?” Aziraphale said, filling the silence which had descended since Julia’s departure.

“Yeah. Um. Yeah,” Crowley replied, mind scrabbling for appropriate small talk filler. He was suddenly finding himself at a loss for wit, wisdom, and _words_. “Um… It’s funny, she actually reminds me of my boss.”

He mentally kicked himself. Probably not appropriate small talk filler, is it? Work. Especially not _his_ work. Work is never a particularly interesting topic of conversation, even when your job _isn’t_ literally being the active arch-nemesis of the person you are talking with. Bit of a rapport killer, that. Bit of a way to stop the conversation in its-

“Oh?” Aziraphale said, interrupting Crowley’s thoughts, evidently unfazed. “Who? Which- I mean, which boss?”

“Um. Beelzebub?”

The Angel tried and failed to stifle a laugh. 

_Surprising._

“Oh, that is worryingly accurate,’ Aziraphale chuckled. “She really is, rather, isn’t she? I knew she reminded me of someone.”

Crowley found himself smiling dazedly again. He seemed to do that a lot, whenever he ran into the Angel. He tried not to think about it. 

Aziraphale continued to speak.

“That, um, it’s that sense of something far too large being squashed into something far too little, isn’t it?”

“Ha! Yes! That’s exactly it! That’s exactly it. Perfect description.” Crowley laughed, and felt mildly gratified, or mildly _something_ , anyway, when the Angel smiled back, dropping his gaze and-- was the Angel _blushing_? 

And then Crowley hesitated. A prickly little question was jabbing at the back of his mind. He shouldn’t ask, he _knew_ he shouldn’t ask. He should _leave it_ … 

“So, uh, how do you know Beelzebub, then? You don’t exactly move in the same circles...”

Crowley always had problems asking questions he knew he ought not.

“Oh, well, you know how it is. Paths cross…” It was the Angel’s turn to hesitate. Crowley watched him carefully. “And, well, before, um, well, _you know_ , before all _that,_ I was somewhat, um, acquainted with them.”

“You knew them… Before the-- Wow. That’s… unexpected.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Oh, no, not _know_ , I mean-- We ran into each other a few times, that’s all. They were at a handful of conferences I was compelled to attend, we exchanged a few pleasantries, nothing much. I doubt they’d remember me. Passing acquaintances, at best.”

Crowley exhaled heavily. “ _Woooof_ … That’s-- _I_ didn’t even know them, back then. I only met them _after_ we--”

The end of that sentence withered away on Crowley’s tongue. Aziraphale swallowed and took a sudden interest in the candle holder sitting on the table top, and Crowley felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Um, so what brings you to Rome?” the Angel asked, switching to a casually companionable tone and swerving elegantly away from the pulsing undercurrent of _This Really Isn’t A Good Idea, Is It, Us Being Here Together?_ that had slunk into the atmosphere. “Do you- I haven’t seen you around here, before- That is to say, I’d rather expected you to be in the city more often?”

“Oh?” Crowley replied wanly.

“Well, centre of the Empire, so much going on, hot bed for, um, ‘ _temptations’_ and suchlike. Thought your Side would be, well, a lot more _active_ here, that’s all… Um.” The Angel twisted the signet ring he was wearing on his little finger and press-ganged a smile onto his face. “Um, well, and because Rome has such good theatres. Marvellous theatres. Real place to be for drama. Am I right in thinking you are a fan of the theatre? I’m sure I remember you mentioning something to that effect, at some point, maybe in Mycenae or... Well, anyway, I suppose I just expected Rome to be, you know, uh, _up your alley_ , as they say.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not really a… Don’t really like Rome, much. Bit, nnnmmnnggn, _busy._ Not my kind of…” 

Crowley trailed off. He was suddenly feeling a little… _something_ -ish. And not a good something-ish. Not the _something-_ ish that feels sort of warm and safe and casts a peachy-golden-glow over the world and makes you want to smile dazedly for no apparent reason (not that Crowley ever felt _something_ -ish like that, of course. Absolutely not. He was a _demon_ , after all. That was a purely hypothetical something-ish. He’d read about it).

No, this was a bad _something_ -ish. The kind of _something_ -ish that keeps you awake at night by recounting all of the stupid things you did during the day, and that takes great pleasure in reminding you of all of your many mistakes and failings at extremely inopportune moments. The kind of _something_ -ish that makes you wince at your own words and sparks a very strong desire deep within your soul for you to give yourself a good hard kicking.

The Angel sitting across the table watched him. Waiting. The Demon jiggled his leg, nervously. He didn’t know _why_ he was nervous. Maybe he wasn’t nervous. Maybe he was anxious. Or uncomfortable. Or just suddenly full of energy and in need of a jog. Crowley _did_ feel like a jog would do him the world of good right now. A quick jog right out of this hellish restaurant, right out of this hellish city, right out of this hellish country, and right back to the back of beyond where everything was quiet and the people were normal and there were no conversations with Angels to get all tangled up in. 

Oh well. Onwards and upwards, as they say.

“Ngk. But, um, yeah. Yeah. No. Yeah. Theatres are good. Can’t get enough of the theatre. Theatre-city; Population, _Me_. Erm.” Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to pull himself out of the hole he was digging. “Was hoping to catch a few plays before heading off, actually.”

“Oh, you should,” Aziraphale said, grasping at what appeared to be a safe topic of conversation. “Best stick to the Greek ones, though. Not so many good original works out of Italy, these days. It’s really rather depressing, actually. I went to a performance last week, a rewrite of Sophocles’ _Oedipus Rex_ by some chap called Seneca. Awful. Not a patch on the original. I don’t know why reboots are so fashionable lately, they are so rarely worth the effort. Although I have heard that his _Medea_ is rather good”

“Avoid Oedipus, check out Medea. Got it.”

“Well, that is to say, I don’t know whether _Medea_ is _actually_ any good or not. Haven’t seen it myself. Not yet, anyway. Not a recommendation from experience. If it’s awful, I mean.”

“Oh, right,” replied Crowley, Master of Conversation.

“There’re some performances of it scheduled at the _Theatre of Marcellus_ sometime in the next couple of weeks actually, if you’re staying around. I’m hoping to attend one. The troupe performing it are very good. I caught their interpretation of _The Clouds_ last year. It was one of the better versions I’ve seen.”

Crowley brightened at that. Being mopey when discussing topics pertaining to your own Eternal Damnation was one thing, but staying mopey in the face of a chance to talk Athenian Old Comedy with someone who’d actually been there at it's inception too, well, that was quite another.

“I _love The Clouds!_ ” Crowley crowed.

Aziraphale smiled properly, then. A real, glowing, sincere smile that lit up his eyes like sunlight over the ocean, and Crowley felt a new, and decidely more pleasant _something_ -ish feeling kick the bad _something-_ ish out of the way. He smiled, dazedly. 

“Oh, really?” the Angel chirped in reply. “It’s one of my favourites.”

“With the flea and the slippers?”

“‘ _What subtlety of thought_ ’,” Aziraphale laughed. “It really was rather harsh on poor old Socrates, though.”

“Well, I mean a bit, but… Did you ever meet him?”

“Socrates?”

“Yeah.”

“Not really. Saw a few of his lectures when I was passing through Athens, but I never took the opportunity to speak with him before the whole _corruption of the youth_ debacle.”

“I knew him. Not well, but I don’t think anyone really knew him _well_ , honestly. Obstinate bastard. Not very good at making friends. Genius, though.”

“Not the type to suspend himself in wicker baskets in the sky, then?”

“Well, everyone gets bored sometimes,” Crowley grinned. “Aristophanes wasn’t too off the mark.”

“Oh, _The Clouds_ really is amusing, isn’t it? Awfully clever. I must have watched it at least ten times, over the years.”

“I saw the original production at the Dionysia, you know,” Crowley said. “Did not go down well…”

The Angel sighed.

“I missed that. I’d planned to be there, but then got sent off to Persia at the last minute. You know. _Work_.”

“That business with the satrap of, where was it? Hyrcania?”

“Yes…”

“Yeah, I was meant to be there for that too, but I put it off. Figured that the king was already executed so, you know, he wasn’t _going_ anywhere. And there’s always so much paperwork in the weeks immediately after an assassination, nothing really gets done. And, plus, you know, Darius seemed to have enough plans of his own to be getting on with, he didn’t need _my_ help with any of it. Got to be the motivated type to stage a coup. And he’d already done the _murder_ bit, so, I mean, not much more I could add, really. No point in me missing the drama festival over it.”

“Yes, I didn’t feel my presence was particularly necessary, if I’m completely honest,” the Angel sighed. “But one does what one must, I suppose.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Crowley added, trying to be conciliatory. “Wasn’t a good year for it, really. And first productions are rarely as good as the later ones, in my opinion. Not much more than a dress rehearsal, really. Much better once they’ve been polished by a few solid tour runs. And _The Clouds_ went down terribly in that first performance. Aristophanes was quite bitter about it. Got extremely drunk with him in a _kapeleion_ after. He kept ranting about how he was too _avant-garde_ for the audience, and how they just didn’t _get what he was going for_.”

“I suppose it is better to watch the polished version,” the Angel admitted. “And it is _so_ entertaining. So witty. Athenian literature is so highly regarded for its tragedies, but it is a shame to overlook the comedies. They really are quite marvellous.”

“Yeah. I like the comedies best. Tragedy has its place, I guess, but…” Crowley shrugged. “Eh. I prefer things that make me laugh, these days. The rest of the world is so depressing, I’d rather not have my entertainment depress me, too.”

“You might like _Adelphoe_ , then,” Aziraphale chirped, dodging the Demon’s dip into melancholy waters. “It’s one of Terence’s comedies, have you seen it? That’s on at the Theatre of Pompey at the moment, I believe.”

“Mm, I’ve heard a bit about Terence.”

“You’ve never seen any of his plays?!”

“Nope.”

“Oh! You simply _must_. You’ll love them.”

“I’ll make sure to put it on my list.”

“I’m going to watch _Adelphoe_ next week. Perhaps I’ll see you there, if you are staying in Rome?”

“Do you do _anything_ but watch plays?” Crowley taunted, but not viciously. “You saw _Oedipus_ last week, going to see _Adelphoe_ next week, then _Medea_ the week after that… You’re like a walking theatre guide. They got you on commission or something?”

“May as well have.” 

The Angel smiled again, but this time there was just a hint of well-worn and unspoken sadness pacing beneath it. Crowley wondered where that was coming from. 

The Angel continued, “Well, you know how it is, I’m sure. Or maybe you don’t. Um. That is to say, one must have one’s hobbies. Little distractions from… Well.” 

Aziraphale sighed; a fragile, forlorn, forsaken little sound, and Crowley was suddenly overwhelmed with a sensation that he could only describe as _Oh no_.

That little glimpse behind the facade. That little flicker of the mask. Crowley had seen Aziraphale anxious, he had seen him concerned, afraid, angry, happy, even sad, in a general, _Oh, This Isn’t A Terribly Good Situation I Really Rather Wish This Weren’t Happening Right Now_ , kind of a way. But not like _this_ . Angels weren’t supposed to sound like _this_ . Angels were on the Winning Team. Angels were filled with the Grace of God. But this Angel sounded… Well, he sounded _depressed._ Lost. _Lonely_. Crowley recognised the tells far too easily. He knew them far too well.

“...Distractions from what, Angel?”

Crowley wasn’t sure whether he was inordinately grateful or deeply disappointed that their food chose that exact moment to arrive at their table. 

On the one hand, it meant that the Demon avoided what may have proven to be an uncomfortably insightful conversation with the Angel. 

But on the other hand it meant that he avoided an uncomfortably insightful conversation with the Angel.

It was probably for the best.


End file.
